


Don't

by Poleng (TonyoAtPoleng)



Category: Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral (2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-29 18:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonyoAtPoleng/pseuds/Poleng
Summary: Slightly inspired by the song "Don't" by Loco and Hwasa. It's Korean, but... yeah.Check it out on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IB6kViGA3rY





	Don't

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly inspired by the song "Don't" by Loco and Hwasa. It's Korean, but... yeah.  
> Check it out on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IB6kViGA3rY  
> 

A friend once told me this interesting tidbit about drinking: that alcohol is, at first, a stimulant—think all those wild parties, the screaming, the cheering, the laughter, the dancing—but if you drink more than what your body can handle, it becomes a depressant.

Hence the breakdowns and the crying.

I remember this most conveniently while standing in the middle of a bar. Neon lights going crazy all around me, people dancing and who-knows-what-else everywhere, while I stand there, nth empty glass in hand.

I would cry if I still had tears left, but I’m tired and done with that phase. Now I just want another glass.

The bar isn’t too far, thankfully, because I’m sure by now I’m not walking straight at all. I can think straight—I think—but walking, in this place, would take a bit more conscious effort.

I try my hardest not to slam the glass on the bar top. I’m not angry; I’m numb. So numb I can’t even tell my strength. I try to order another drink. I think the bartender understood what I meant. It looked like it. He nodded as he continued assembling a drink. At least it looked like it.

I hop onto one of the stools and swivel around to watch the crowd. I have no objective, really. I’m just a bored kid waiting for my drink.

The bartender finishes mixing and lays a glass on the bar—I turn back to him—then he slides it to the guy sitting a chair away from me. Not my drink then.

As I said, I’m numb. Maybe also a little slow. So in the midst of the sea of pink and blue and yellow and red lights, I end up catching a glimpse (more like staring) at the guy: slicked back hair, high cheekbones, a furrowed brow, cigarette between his lips.

He notices me staring.

“Hey,” he starts. I, being a numb dumbass, don’t realize it at first.

“Ha?!” I say—yung _ha_ na skwammy pa ha, hindi _huh_ —but get distracted by the drink the bartender sets in front of me.

From the corner of my eye I see Mister Bar Stranger smirk and shake his head. “Cheers,” he then says, raising his glass of whiskey slightly. His voice is louder this time, so I hear him. He has a nice, deep voice. Not that I’ve heard him sing. Not yet. But I can tell. (Or maybe it’s the alcohol telling me.)

“Cheers!” I reply and reach out to clink my glass with his. He laughs.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting a sort of pick up line. Heck, even just a “what are you drinking” or a “what brings you here?” I dunno. He looks cute. So sue me for wanting it.

He lights another cigarette while I sit there nursing my cocktail. We’re quiet—an odd sight in this noisy bar. He doesn’t mind. I’m too numb to care.

“You should drink,” he finally says. “Nawa-water down na yang cocktail mo. Sayang.”

The numbness of my fingers from holding that cold glass disappears. My brain suddenly goes back into focus, all thoughts swimming in my head—how I’m drunk again, how I’m lonely again, how I might make a fool of myself (again?), how desperate I might look if I “pretended” (?) to drunk call or text my ex…—all thoughts flushed out from hearing his voice. Rupok mo, gaga.

“Oh, yeah,” is the only thing I muster. I bring the glass to my lips, but my hands are shaking. From the cold and from the nervousness. I feel his eyes on me. I take a sip and smile at him. For no reason.

He gives a small smile back. It’s an empty, meaningless one. The kind you give to strangers when you don’t want to seem too cold. I know that smile. I’ve been giving a lot of it lately.

“Parang malalim iniisip mo ah,” I end up saying.

“Have I seen you before?” He—not really interjects, more like, says simultaneously.

Alcohol or no, my cheeks flush. There’s the pick up line I’ve been waiting for!

But he doesn’t even flinch. His expression is serious, maybe slightly curious, but not ashamed or embarrassed at all. Unlike me. (But not confident or cocky like other guys out to get a score, you know what I mean? He just looks genuinely curious if we’ve met before.)

“...no? I dunno? I can’t see really well right now,” I squint as I sit closer to him. “I’m Y/N.”

He puts his cigarette down on the ashtray. “Julian,” he says. He extends his hand towards me.

Aaaand I panic. Hastily I wipe my cold, wet hands on my dress (real classy) and take his hand to shake it. “Nice to meet you, Julian.”

We both give the same cordial smile. As if we’re not at a bar.

Then it hits me. Julian? Julian… it’s a pretty common name but I’m sure I know at least one Julian personally… “Wait, Julian Del Pilar?”

“I knew we’d met before,” he replies coolly. Puuuuta, iba talaga. Iba talaga datingan ng mga Del Pilar eh. “How long has it been?”

My high school grad ball. I remember that night, I just might regret that night for the rest of my days… sings Angelica Schuyler, but not me. Well, I do remember and I do kind of regret that night. Mostly because… after wishing and hoping that that cute boy from the all-boys school next door that I met at that one soiree would come to the grad ball… I didn’t even have the guts to actually talk to him. We had one dance. The longest and probably the best two minutes of my young teenage self’s life… and I didn’t have the balls to talk to him afterwards.

Yeah… now I remember Julian. That _Julian_.

Now that I think about it (again), I could’ve asked 16-year-old Julian a bunch of things before we parted ways. Have you decided which college to go to, for starters, or what course are you going to take. Or, can I get your number, or can we hang out and be friends?

Of course, I never got the chance to ask any of those questions because he was too cool and I was spacing out. Like I am now.

“Hmm, almost ten years, I think,” I finally say. “It’s been a looong time, huh.”

“And who would’ve thought I’d see you again, after that last dance, ten years later at another dance floor,” he then says, laughing a little. He takes a swig of his drink. “Though we’re not really doing much dancing now, huh.”

“How have you been? How’s… um…” I trail off because _fuck_ what was the name of that girl again? “Uh…”

“Dolores? Oh wait, no, Dolores was in college. You mean Clara?”

Clara, that cute girl from the other class back in high school who did everything I didn’t do—she asked him out. Girl power.

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t work out. As most young love stories do.”

“Ahh…” What am I supposed to say to that? I mean, I get it. I’ve been there, too…

“Si Dolores naman…” he starts, but pauses right away to take a drag of his cigarette. He then snuffs it in the ashtray. And why is he oversharing? “Si Dolores I met in college, and… well she initially liked Goyong—have you met him yet? Or wait maybe it’s better you didn’t, haha—” he says this and his eyes crinkle and laugh a little, almost like he’s winking, “—but we kinda hung out and just kinda got together and… yeah. Now we’re kinda not together. For now. Or so I think. So I’m here.”

“Oh no,” instinct, I say.

“But enough about me,” he says, looking me straight in the eyes. I don’t know if it’s because of the lights that I want to look away, or if it’s because of the alcohol, or maybe I’m just weak and that 16-year-old girl inside me is just raring to jump out and—“What about you? What’s happening?”

I turn to look at my drink, at the bartender, even at the lights. If I look at him I wouldn’t be able to say anything. Swirling the watery cocktail, I start, “Eh, nothing much. I… I’m trying to start over, maybe? A bar is the worst place to find love and shit but, I don’t know. Maybe what I’m looking for is just a drink.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’ve had too much.”

He laughs again. “Me too.”

And then silence. It’s… not awkward, but it’s not comfortable either. It’s more like we’re both just waiting for the other to say something— _anything_ —or else we would end up spilling out words that probably shouldn’t be said lest things get...complicated.

“You know—”  
“About that—”

We both say at the same time. Cheesy, like a romcom. But I like it.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, no, I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

“No—” I start, but I figure, _fuck it_ , if I keep stalling I’ll never get to say it. Just like ten years ago. I down what’s left of my drink. _Ngh_. “—um—”

“Can we get two shots of—” _Puta di naman nakikinig_. He started talking to the bartender, ordering another drink. Wait, two? Wait, _we_? _Wait, shots_?!

I blank out.

“Eto, para di na awkward,” he says, almost laughing, as the bartender pours us two shots of tequila each. I’m dead. “Para fun,” _oh no._ “For each shot, we tell each other one thing—anything, it can be super random, or something you’ve always wanted to say, it doesn’t have to be to me, it can be just something you want to say but never had the opportunity or space to. Game?”

Panicking! “Um, okay.”

“Cool. Ladies first.”

“What?! Bastos,” I laugh, hesitatingly picking up my shot glass. He laughs, too. A more genuine one, this time. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe, if I’d indulge myself just this once, it’s really because of me. “Fine,” I knock back the shot.

“Woooh!”

“Um, you know, honestly,” I gulp. My throat is suddenly dry. “I really liked you back in high school. Even if we barely knew each other.”

“What about now?”

He looks at me dead straight in the eyes again. I look down. I can’t—he can’t keep staring me in the eyes like that. I know he’s searching for answers, and I know if I don’t look away he’ll find it. And maybe it’s the tequila, but I feel like melting. And I feel like saying yes.

But I don’t.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head as if to wake himself up. He takes his shot, places the shot glass back down on the bar, and just… stares at it. So intently, like he’s mulling something over. The lights reflect and bounce against the little shot glass. Kind of entrancing.

Then he sighs. “You know…” he starts—I guess he really was mulling over what to reveal. “Men keep saying, ‘not all men,’ but that’s bullshit.”

Oh. Wow. A feminist man. I like him more already.

“Men are all the same,” he continues, a wry smile playing on his lips. “No, men who had drinks are all the same. Saying ‘I don't see anyone but you,’ but really, it’s just ‘I forgot everything else but you.’”

That… got really deep all of a sudden.  
And you know, I may be drunk, but I understood that. I… that makes perfect sense.

He looks at me again. I don’t look away this time.

I suddenly feel a surge of brashness. I take a shot.

“So, now do you see me? Or are you just forgetting everything else but me?”

He smirks. His eyes are still on me. He takes a shot.

“Sabi nila, pag may alak, may balak,” he says, then pushes the shot glasses away from us. “Kaya ilayo mo na ‘tong mga ‘to. Baka kung ano pang balakin ko… lalo na kung nandito ka rin.” He laughs. A low, almost hollow, almost desperate laugh. “Ilayo mo na ‘ko sa bar na ‘to,” he says, gaze falling somber and yet pleading at the same time.

“Tama na yan,” I say.

And… maybe it’s all the alcohol, or maybe it’s me just patronizing him, or maybe he really is right—alak, balak, and all—but my hands and lips move on their own. Gently placing a hand on his arm, I hear myself say, “Tara.”


End file.
